


You are my replica of the multiplying universe

by viverella



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Young Avengers
Genre: AU - Kate is still Hawkeye but the Young Avengers aren't a thing, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-03 05:49:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2840294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viverella/pseuds/viverella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new café slash bakery pops up in Kate's neighborhood while she's away in LA on her summer voyage of discovery. She briefly considers hating it because it replaced her favorite coffee shop, but the owner, one America Chavez, is beautiful and the coffee is delicious, so things don't really go according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You are my replica of the multiplying universe

**Author's Note:**

> why is it that every time I get into a new ship I end up writing a crazy, cheesy au that literally consumes my life? I literally have no idea why I keep doing this to myself. also I'm like super tardy to this party like always because I just finished reading all of Young Avengers like a few weeks ago, but I'm so head-over-heels in love with America Chavez already that it hurts and we all already knew that I love Kate Bishop more than anything, and I'm always going to argue that there should be more girlfriends, so here we are. I'm terrible and this fic is a huge cheeseball and I cannot believe I actually wrote a coffee shop au even though I haven't in literally _years_. um. don't hate me?
> 
> also I apologize if anything seems terribly out of character! I'm still trying to get a sense of how to write these two. it usually takes me a fic or two to really get into the swing of writing a new ship. 
> 
>  
> 
> title borrowed from Pablo Neruda's _Sonnet XVI_.

Kate comes back to New York after a summer in LA to find that her favorite coffee shop has been replaced by a new café slash bakery tackily named Americana that boasts ridiculous, frothy drinks and pink-and-white cake pops and she very seriously considers never, ever going there ever again out of sheer spite. But then she realizes that she’s running late and she’s severely under-caffeinated and Clint’s probably still mad at her for stealing Lucky for the entire summer, which means she should probably bring coffee as a peace offering, so she goes into the shop anyways. 

The girl at the counter is shouting something to one of the back rooms and restocking the cake pops in the display case, and when Kate approaches the counter and eyes the menu written on the back wall in chalk, the girl frowns at her with the disgruntled annoyance that screams _food service was my last choice of careers_. Kate smiles anyways, never one to piss off anyone who’s making her something edible, lest one of them actually try to poison her. 

“Can I help you?” the girl all but demands, leaning a hip on the counter as Kate takes too long perusing the long list of elaborate coffees they offer. She’s wearing a blue jacket with white stars on the chest and a red and white striped shirt underneath and it has an oddly patriotic effect that Kate would probably be amused by if she weren’t trying to figure out why someone would need to come up with over two dozen ways to label fancy coffee. 

“Uh,” Kate says elegantly and blinks at the girl behind the counter, suddenly distracted by the heavy pout to her mouth. “Can I just have two large lattes to go, please?”

The girl nods. “Five-fifty,” she says shortly and grabs two cups, moving to make the drinks. Her hair is a mass of curls pulled up into a tight ponytail that bounces behind her as she moves, its jubilance in sharp contrast with the annoyed crease in her brow. 

“What happened to Mitch?” Kate asks as she waits for her drinks, because she’s still upset that her favorite coffee shop in Brooklyn apparently disappeared while she was away. 

The girl shrugs. “Finally sold the place,” she says. “Just as well, too. His coffee sucked.”

Kate is trying to figure out if she should take this as a personal affront when the girl sets down the lattes down on the counter and smirks. 

“Don’t worry, mine’s much better,” she says like she knows that Kate has this deep, emotional attachment to the familiarity of the coffee shop that used to stand on this corner. 

Kate arches an eyebrow and decides, yep, it’s personal now because Kate is nothing if not loyal and she takes her coffee seriously, thank you very much. She shoves a couple bills at the girl and heads out without waiting for her change and tries really, really hard to dislike the coffee, even though it really is delicious, even as Clint gushes about it later and decides that he’ll forgive Kate for running off with his dog on the condition that Kate only bring him this coffee specifically ever. 

Kate probably should’ve known she’d be back eventually.

\---

Clint makes Kate meet him at the café the next day instead of at his apartment (“My apartment building is being overrun with vaguely Eastern European thugs, and they don’t know who you are yet. We have to use that to our advantage. Strategy, Katie. It’s everything.”), so Kate shows up with a huge stack of files of information that Clint’s collected about the thugs and their hired gun, intending to look them over before Clint arrives, because he dumped them on her when she got back and probably expects her to actually know what they’re about. The same girl as before is behind the counter today and she raises her eyebrows at the armful of things Kate’s carrying. 

“You trying to move in?” the girl asks, the corner of her mouth quirking up. “Was my coffee that good?”

Kate ignores the girl’s jab and orders another large latte, this time dine-in. The girl is wearing another assortment of red, white, and blue clothing that makes her look vaguely like the American flag again, and Kate really isn’t sure if she should really be the one being made fun of here. 

Kate grabs a table in the back corner and flips her files open, leafing through the various obscure documents and newspaper clippings Clint has been able to dig up. As much of a mess as Clint tends to be, his notes are shockingly organized, and Kate has no problem jumping right into it and picking up where she left off, helping Clint defend the apartment building he accidentally bought months and months ago. By the time the girl comes by with Kate’s coffee, Kate’s got the contents of at least three folders spread out in front of her and she’s digging into a fourth. The girl snorts. 

“You police or something, princess?” she asks, tossing out a casual nickname like they actually know each other. 

“Or something,” Kate answers vaguely and gives the girl a withering look. “And it’s Kate, not princess.”

The girl shrugs and sets down a large ceramic cup filled to the brim with coffee on the table. There’s a loud, sudden crash from the back room, which makes the girl swear under her breath and turn on her heel so she can all but kick open the door to the back room, which appears to a kitchen of sorts, and shout, “Noh! What the ever loving _fuck_?” before the door swings shut behind her. 

And if Kate’s really honest about it, that’s probably the moment she falls in love, just a little bit. 

\---

Clint asks Kate to meet him at Americana the next day and again three days after that and keeps asking her to meet him there, and Kate finds herself going there on her own sometimes to dig through files and research criminals Clint’s tracking if for no other reason than the familiarity of the place, and accidentally becomes a regular at the café that she originally intended to hate. Within a few weeks, she has a booth in the back that’s hers and she doesn’t even have to order coffee anymore because they all know what she wants and ends up knowing everyone by name without meaning to. 

It turns out that the girl who works the counter actually owns the place and her name’s America and she hates the name of her café more than Kate does, but she can’t change it now because she’s got this terrible friend who put it on all the legal paperwork surrounding the café and it’s all squared away and done (though Kate’s not sure if ‘friend’ is the right word to refer to Loki, because he’s come by the café exactly twice that Kate’s seen and both times, America has threatened real, physical violence if he didn’t get out immediately). There’s Noh, who bakes all the pastries that they serve and always wears bizarre, brightly colored clothing and drives America up the wall because he violates about a thousand health codes every day and refuses to wear a shirt half the time (“It gets hot when I’m baking five cakes at once!”). And then there’s Billy, who helps America man the front and bus dishes and generally keep things in order, and Teddy, who doesn’t technically work there but is dating Billy so he ends up hanging out there most afternoons anyways and lends a hand during their busier hours and gets paid mostly in free pastries and coffee. 

And it gets to the point where it’s almost weird for Kate _not_ to at least stop by and grab a coffee to go and a cake pop, check out what assortment of starred and striped clothing America has decided to wear for the day, and get made fun of for playing rogue hero.

“Looking for trouble today, princess?” America smirks, already making Kate’s latte as she walks in the door and eyeing Kate’s super suit with a marked degree of amusement. 

Kate leans against the counter and smirks. “Actually, trouble usually looks for me,” she says, which doesn’t quite make America laugh, but she makes a sort of soft, scoffing sound, which is probably, Kate thinks, as close as she’s going to get for now. 

“Speak of the devil,” America says, her eyes settling somewhere behind Kate as she slides Kate’s coffee across the counter to her. 

Kate glances over her shoulder to find a very frazzled Clint crashing into the shop and shouting, “Really Kate? We’ve got criminals to catch and you’re stopping for _coffee_?”

“You know I haven’t had coffee yet today and I have a caffeine withdrawal headache,” Kate protests, which is only half true, and America snorts like she can tell that Kate’s lying. Kate glares at her, and America doesn’t flinch. 

“ _Kate_ ,” Clint says, exasperated, like he hasn’t done the same thing to her countless times. 

“ _Clint_ ,” Kate shoots back, but grabs her coffee and marches out of the shop after Clint, and she hears America laughing at her back and it sounds a little like it could burn her up from the inside out. 

\---

There’s something shockingly warm that Kate’s found in America, once Kate made it clear that she intended to keep coming back for a while and America decided that Kate’s presence is not entirely intolerable, and Kate finds herself enjoying the quiet moments between them more than she expected. America is built like someone who could probably kill you with her bare hands and she’s intimidating and beautiful, but there’s something underneath it all that’s somehow still soft, like she’s not exactly unfriendly per se, just someone you’d have to push to get to know. And the thing is, Kate finds herself wanting to know, wanting to catch those rare moments America unfurls, this subtle thing like a trick of the light, and even though she’s been looking for it, it catches her off guard anyways, making something clench in her chest every time like she’s run up too many stairs. 

America is kind but guarded in a way that makes her seem standoffish to most, hoarding details of her own personal life like it’s something to be hidden away, and as Kate spends more time at the café, America slowly takes to her like a wary cat testing out new territory, bringing her coffee, staying to chat for a few minutes, asking her to try some new cupcakes they’re thinking of serving Americana. And then one afternoon, she slides into Kate’s booth when business is slow and kicks her feet up on the seat beside Kate like she belongs there, and Kate raises her eyebrows. 

“Don’t you have a café to run?” she asks, mostly teasing. 

America shrugs. “I’m on break,” she offers and eyes Kate’s laptop. “Track down any bad guys lately, Supergirl?”

Kate snorts. “I’m not Supergirl,” she says, for no other reason than to fill the space between them with something familiar and warm. After a moment’s consideration, she adds, “I’m more like Batman. Except minus all the black and brooding.”

America smirks. “So you’re rich, huh?” she says, leaning back in her seat. “I always knew you were money.”

Kate shifts, vaguely uncomfortable the way she gets every time people see her father’s money before they see her. “Yeah?” she challenges, even though she’s not quite sure why she’s doing it, why she feels like she has something to prove to America. “Says who?”

“Says your laptop that’s probably worth more than I pay for rent every month,” America says, and it’s sharp like everything about her but without malice. Something in her expression softens then, like she can tell that she’s hit a nerve, and she says in a tone that would almost be fond coming from anyone else, “Why do you think I call you princess, princess?”

And it sounds like America is at least considering being nice, so Kate smiles and lets them settle into a comfortable silence. From the back room, the faintest strains of Noh singing along to Taylor Swift can be heard, and America heaves the weary sigh of a woman who has dealt with more than her fair share of ridiculous and flips open a book she produces from somewhere. It’s a thin volume that’s fraying a little at the edges and has cracks down the spine like it’s been read and reread too many times. It’s a book of love sonnets by Pablo Neruda and America’s lips move almost imperceptibly as she reads, and it makes Kate’s gut twist in a way that’s not entirely comfortable because that’s her favorite book of poems sitting so well-loved in America’s hands. 

“Is that— Are you reading Pablo Neruda?” Kate asks, trying to keep her voice level even though her heart is suddenly trying to fight its way out of her chest because that’s her _favorite book of poems_ and America’s read it so many times that there are creases worn into the pages from where she’s dog-eared her favorite poems. 

America peeks up at Kate over the top of the book and she doesn’t quite smile but there’s something bright in her eyes like she’s trying not to let her amusement show.

“He’s my moms’ favorite poet,” America says quietly, something almost brittle in her voice like there’s something that she’s been ignoring for a long time now.

Kate smiles at the rare form of tenderness that lives in America’s chest. “He’s good,” she says gently, because that sounds better than asking _what happened with your moms?_ like she has any right to poke into America’s personal life. 

America hums softly and ducks her chin to hide behind her book again, and Kate could swear that she catches the slightest flush creeping up America’s neck, but it could just be her imagination.

\---

There’s one day Kate goes into Americana to find a line going out the door and America and Billy behind the counter shouting at one another and looking more harried than Kate has ever seen them. Even America, who’s hotheaded and impatient even on her best day but by and large unshakeable, looks like she’s about to crack, her hair falling out of its usual ponytail and her clothes a mess of coffee stains, and yet when she sees Kate, she scrambles to make Kate’s latte right away, which causes a wave of unhappy murmurs to rush down the line. 

Kate tries to call out to America that it’s okay, that she’s in no hurry to get her coffee, she’s really just here to say hi and warm up a little since it’s getting chilly out anyways, but then Teddy’s running in and shouting, “I’m here, I’m here” and jumping behind the counter to man the register and dole out pastries while America and Billy take care of coffee, and everyone gets a little bit distracted after that. 

It’s at least forty-five minutes before the roar dies down and the rush quiets back down to the usual trickle of customers, and America collapses into Kate’s booth and lets her head drop down onto the table with a dull _thunk_. She lets out a drawn out groan, and she’s still groaning miserably some minutes later when Billy comes by with Kate’s latte and a cup of tea for America. 

“Um,” Kate says, mildly concerned that America is either going to spontaneously combust or else melt into the tabletop altogether. 

Billy laughs. “Just let her calm down,” he says. “She’ll be fine.”

Kate eyes America skeptically. “This isn’t calm?” she asks.

Billy snorts. “It’s either this or punching a hole in the wall,” he says, “And I’m pretty sure our insurance doesn’t cover the latter.”

Kate’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, which makes Billy laugh again and assure Kate that America will be just fine once she’s had her tea before he goes back to man the counter. And Kate’s not entirely convinced that a cup of tea is all it’s going to take to keep America from destroying property, but a few minutes pass and America peeks up from the mess of curls obscuring her face and she reaches out a careful hand to grasp the cup Billy set down in front of her like she’s afraid she’ll accidentally break it. It smells like jasmine or chamomile or something equally soft and floral, and America smells like something fruity like mangoes when she tosses her hair back to sip at her tea, and sometimes Kate can’t believe how delicate being around America can feel. Kate wants to ask what was going on earlier with that huge line but America still looks a little on edge, so Kate leans back and drinks her coffee and waits. 

“Fucking review,” America grumbles finally, glaring at her now empty cup like it personally offended her. “Some fancy food blogger reviewed our shop and now every hipster in Brooklyn wants to come by for a cup.”

America says this like she’s been insulted in the worst possible way, and all Kate can do is laugh, even though part of her knows that she’s risking a punch in the mouth. It’s only a very minor risk, but it’s a risk nonetheless. And even though America’s eyebrow arches dangerously and the corners of her mouth turn down, her hands remain still on her cup, so Kate considers herself fairly safe. 

“Isn’t that supposed to be a good thing?” Kate teases, because she’s twenty-one and mostly an adult but she’s not above being a little childish every now and again. “’Cause, y’know, most people I know would be over the moon if their shop got a good review.”

America scowls at her like it’s maybe the third worst thing anyone’s ever said to her and shoves an impatient hand through her hair. 

“I’m going to have to hire more help if this keeps up,” she complains and sounds a little less like she’s achieved something and more like she’s been told that she’s got three weeks to live. She glares at the dregs of her tea like it can give her answers to questions she hasn’t asked and after a moment, Kate wonders if America has forgotten that she’s still sitting across the booth from her. After a beat, America turns and shouts over to the counter, “Hey, Billy! Got any friends?”

Billy blinks and looks a little like he can’t decide if he thinks America is being serious or not. “Like in general or…?” 

“He’s got a brother,” Teddy offers helpfully. 

Kate grins and says, because she’s admittedly a little shit when she wants to be, “There’s always Loki.”

America whirls around so quickly that Kate’s surprised she doesn’t get whiplash and barks, “ _Hell no_.”

And anyone else would probably take that as a threat, something harsh and mean and meant to drive others away, but Kate catches the slight falter in America’s frown, the barely perceptible softening in her brow, like she means it kinder than it came out, so Kate just laughs and laughs and laughs, and it’s the easiest thing she’s done all week.

\---

Because Kate is a Hawkeye and running around with Clint is the sort of thing that inevitably gets you into trouble, she wakes up one day in a hospital with her leg and her arm bandaged up in casts and covered in more cuts and bruises than she can count. Clint’s sitting by her bed when she wakes up, feet propped up at the end of her bed and idly reading a magazine. 

He smiles at her when she wakes and says, “How’re you feeling, Hawkeye?”

There are several ways Kate can think of to answer his question, including _like my head went through a blender_ and _how buildings feel when they’re being demolished_ but what ends up coming out is, “Was I hit by a truck?”

Clint smiles sheepishly the way he gets whenever Kate gets hurt because even though she can take care of herself better than he can most of the time, he feels somewhat responsible for her, since she took his superhero name and all. 

“Close,” he says. “A motorcycle.”

Kate groans and tries to sit up, wincing at the ache that blooms through her body as she does so. Clint tuts at her and tries to get her to lie back down. 

“Now, now, Katie,” he says, annoyingly protective. “I’m here to take you home, but the doctors said you’re not supposed to get out of bed for at least a week.”

“Of course,” Kate grumbles because really, of course that’s her luck, and what’s she supposed to do in bed for a week anyways? 

But Clint takes her home and buys her pizza and steals her ice cream as they marathon the most recent season of America’s Next Top Model and shout at the TV like they know anything about fashion, and it’s nice and Kate almost forgives him for being terrible and paternal and trying to take care of her like she’s never gotten hurt before. Clint ends up staying over more nights than not for the next week and making her eggs and ramen and Kate suspects it’s mostly because he’s out of food at his own apartment and Kate’s not there to buy more groceries but she appreciates the company so she doesn’t complain. 

It’s only so long before she gets unbearably bored, though, and by the end of the first week stuck in her apartment, she’s about ready to pull her hair out. It’s something like six weeks like this and then she’ll probably need to go to physical therapy, and Kate’s already so tired of it all that she has no idea how she’s going to make it through the next several weeks. 

“This is your fault, you know,” Kate says to Clint as she drags herself over to her couch one morning, which is probably unfair of her to say because she’s a big girl and she knew what she was getting herself into when she volunteered for this superhero thing, but she’s been cooped up inside for upwards of a week and she’s getting antsy. 

“Hey!” Clint pouts, turning from where he’s been staring at Kate’s now mostly empty fridge like he can will more groceries to appear. 

“I’m bored,” Kate whines and she knows she sounds childish, but her arm itches under her cast and her back is starting to ache from sitting around all day, and she’s just so ready to get on with her life again. 

Clint sighs and shoves the fridge closed. He crosses his arms and looks around at Kate’s empty kitchen and Kate can almost see his horror at realizing that he’s going to have to go out to buy groceries at some point. 

“Why don’t I get you some coffee,” Clint offers, grabbing Kate’s spare key off the counter as he heads out the door. 

Kate sighs at the silence that’s left behind as the door clicks shut and leans her head back against the couch, staring up at the high ceilings of the penthouse apartment her father gifted her for her eighteenth birthday, as if he could ever give enough to buy her love. She doesn’t even spend that much time here, because it’s big and impersonal and it can get lonely knocking around this big apartment all alone, and as well furnished and plush as her apartment is, Clint’s place has always felt a little more like a home. 

“Katherine Elizabeth Bishop,” Clint shouts as he bursts in the door something like twenty minutes later, coffee in hand from Americana, and it already feels a little bit warmer. 

Kate tips her head to the side and raises her eyebrows at him. His cheeks are rosy from the brisk winter air and he’s got this terrible, shit-eating grin on his face and he’s panting like he just ran all the way back from the café. 

“Do you have a secret girlfriend you haven’t told me about?” Clint demands and when Kate just makes a face at him, he shoves the cup of coffee he’s holding in her face. 

Kate blinks and snatches the coffee away from him so she can actually see what he’s trying to show her, and when her vision unblurs finds herself staring at a phone number scribbled messily on the side of the cup. If she were drinking something, she might have spit it out. 

“Well?” Clint says, flopping down in an armchair. 

“Who gave this to you?” Kate asks, hating the way she sounds breathless already at the mere possibility that America might want more to do with her than just serving her coffee a few times a week.

Clint shrugs. “The girl who works the counter – y’know, curly hair, looks angry a lot,” he says, sipping at his own coffee. “She’s your girlfriend, right?”

Kate scoffs and hopes that she comes of as nonchalant as she’s trying to seem. “If she were my girlfriend, wouldn’t I already have her number?” she deflects. 

“Huh,” Clint hums thoughtfully, lifting his coffee up to his lips and frowning at nothing in particular.

Kate grins and sips casually at her coffee, pleased with herself for distracting Clint, the picture of calm, but as Clint reaches for the remote to switch on the TV to find a suitable reality show to marathon today, Kate flips her phone over and over and over again in her hand, trying to figure out how to say something that’s appropriately flirty and cool. It takes her three and a half episodes of Project Runway to settle on _Hey, it’s Kate. Heard you missed me._

As soon as she sends the text, she has about five minutes to regret it and visibly panic and get teased by Clint before her phone buzzes in her lap. Kate yelps and scrambles to scoop it up and almost drops it in the process, which makes Clint laugh at her and Kate wave at him to hush him up as if America can hear them. 

_No dice, chica. I’m not the one sending out my errand boy because I got lonely._

Kate can almost hear how America would say it, scathing and sarcastic and just this side of too much, the corners of her mouth turning up into her crooked smirk, and it makes Kate’s stomach flip just thinking about it, and she thinks _oh Jesus Christ, I’m so fucked._

\---

There are, in Kate’s experience, two different kinds of wanting. 

There’s the kind where you know all your life like Kate has always known that she’s wanted to be more than just Katherine Elizabeth Bishop, reluctant socialite and ungrateful daughter of too much money and not enough love, who asks for things like archery lessons and martial arts classes instead of things that rich kids are supposed to ask for, like expensive cars or trips to Paris. 

And then there’s the kind of wanting that sneaks up on you, the kind that you don’t realize you’re keeping hidden away in your chest until it’s staring you in the face, thrilling and secret even from yourself, all bright eyes and dangerous smiles, and that’s the way, Kate realizes, that maybe she’s wanted America all along, quietly and without really meaning to except that she shakes all the way down to her bones just thinking about the way America hands out private smiles sparingly like precious gems, how Kate has a collection of these moments tucked away in a box just in case. 

It’s the second kind of wanting that ends up burning you up from the inside out and Kate, who has always been more fight than anything else and always believed in going after the things that you deserve, has no idea what to do with herself, because her life has always been a deliberate series of steps, of choices – deliberately rebelling against her father, deliberately trying to remake herself in the image of a hero, deliberately running away to Los Angeles when New York got to be too much. But this is different, the way she sort of fell into this give and take with America, like she just woke up in the middle of it one day, and Kate has no plan for this, not at all, and she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do anymore. 

\---

Something like three weeks later, Kate’s wrist has healed enough that she’s allowed to switch out her cast for a removable brace that gives her back proper use of both of her hands, not that that does much for her since her leg is still bandaged up and she’s under orders to keep weight off of it for at least another two or three weeks, but it’s nice regardless. She limps around her apartment anyways, because she’s never been good at taking orders, and it makes Clint yell at her like she’s all of ten years old and threaten to give her a time-out as if he could ever really make her do anything. 

At about a month cooped up in her apartment, Kate has done the impossible and pretty much exhausted her supply of reality shows, and if she thought she was restless after a week, she’s got to be most of the way to insane by now. The only people she’s seen in the past few weeks have been Clint and Lucky, and as much as she loves them, she’s starting to feel a little suffocated. She misses being able to go on adventures and chase thugs through alleyways and, stupidly, she misses Americana and the way that it smells like fresh coffee and warm sugar. She misses the way Noh-Varr is always singing along to whatever Top 40’s hits he’s hooked on that week, and the way Billy and Teddy make disgusting, gooey eyes at one another all afternoon, and most of all, pathetically, she misses America and the way she invites herself into Kate’s booth unannounced and the ridiculous way her entire wardrobe seems to inexplicably consist of short shorts and American flag themed clothing. And it’s ridiculous, because this is supposed to just be a coffee shop she hangs around sometimes, and yet she finds herself thinking of America as one of her closest friends even though she knows almost nothing about her. 

It makes no sense at all, and it’s not been made any better by the fact that she’s been texting America almost nonstop since America gave Kate her number a few weeks ago, and Kate’s really trying her hardest not to think about it when there’s a knock on her door just as she’s starting her fifth episode of Toddlers and Tiaras of the day. Kate frowns, confused, because the only person who ever really comes by is Clint and he has key to her apartment and never bothers to knock anyways. 

“Come in,” Kate calls out, and it ends up sounding more like a question than anything. 

There’s a pause, and then the door clicks open and standing there is the last person Kate has ever expected to see at her apartment. It’s America, in her scuffed up boots and star-studded jacket and bright red shirt, and her curls are loose around her face now that she’s not working, and she’s carrying a square white box at her hip. She raises an eyebrow as she looks around Kate’s apartment and she’s not exactly uncertain, but if she were anyone else, she’d be shifting her weight back and forth uncomfortably. 

“You know,” America says, and her voice is every bit as warm and sharp as Kate remembers, “With an apartment this nice, you should really get in the habit of locking up.”

“Um,” Kate says stupidly. 

“You just going to leave me standing here, princess?” America says, teasing like it’s worth more than the casual banter they’ve built up between them in the months they’ve known each other. 

And Kate kind of just stares, because apparently being a Hawkeye and hanging around Clint all the time means that she turns into a gigantic idiot on a regular basis, and she’s still trying to wrap her head around the fact that America is actually _here_ for some reason, and America is wearing shorts even though it’s the middle of the winter and she’s got to be freezing and her legs look like they go on forever, and it’s all very, very distracting. 

Thankfully, America seems to take pity on her after a moment or two and just rolls her eyes and steps into Kate’s apartment properly, kicking the door shut behind her. America’s not one to smile wide, open smiles, but the corners of her mouth turn up just a touch as she holds out the box to Kate, and it feels a little bit like the sun anyways. 

“Noh made you a cake,” America says, shrugging like it’s not a big deal when Kate gives her a vaguely impressed look. “Sort of a get well soon thing.” There’s something in America’s eyes looks almost unbearably soft, and she adds after a beat, “The boys miss you a lot.”

“Oh?” Kate says, trying to sift through this way that America’s words always feel so heavy even though she says so little. She lifts the box open because she can’t think of anything else to do and nestled carefully inside is a rich, dark chocolate cake.

“I’ll get you a fork,” America offers, eyeing Kate’s bad leg, and wanders off to the kitchen like she belongs here. “Where do you keep your utensils?”

“In the drawer to the left of the stove,” Kate says and hears the vague clinking of the silverware, feeling somehow off-kilter and uncertain in her own skin, like her body can’t figure out how to adjust to have America here in her life in any real capacity, like everything up until this point has been some sort of dream. After a moment, she adds, “Grab two. You have to have some of this because I shouldn’t eat all of it and god knows Clint doesn’t need to put more junk in his body.”

There’s a soft sound from the kitchen like America might be laughing, and it makes Kate feel warm all the way down to her toes. 

“How do you know where I live anyways?” Kate asks as America comes back to the living room and sinks down on the couch.

“Your friend told me,” America says, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet under her and she looks so at home here that Kate’s afraid that she’ll do something stupid, like kiss her, like ask America to stay forever. America offers her a fork and says, smirking, “He looks like he ran face-first into a wall, by the way.”

Kate snorts. “Yeah, that’s what he gets for patrolling without me,” she says, only a little bit bitter that Clint has been carrying on with the superhero business without her even though they’re supposed to be partners, technically. 

America grins and scoops up a generous bite of Kate’s cake, only then noticing what Kate’s been watching on TV all day, and her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. 

“Shut up,” Kate says before America can say anything, and shoves a huge bite of cake in her mouth. “It gets boring when you’re stuck inside all day, okay?”

America hums, and there’s something teasing in the lilt of her voice that makes Kate’s stomach flip. She swallows her bite of cake thickly. 

Kate half expects America to linger an appropriate ten or fifteen minutes to be polite and then leave, offering the very convenient excuse of having a café to run, but America sits through an entire episode of Toddlers and Tiaras and then another and eats cake with Kate and scoffs at the idea that this is what passes for quality entertainment these days. And Kate would ask why the hell America is still here when she’s got a real person job to do, but she finds herself laughing and laughing and laughing instead and wishing that America could always be here, because this, loose and easy, belly full of laughter and sweets, this makes Kate feel like she’s finally at home, maybe for the first time ever. 

America reaches over to grab another bite of cake and her hand bumps against Kate’s, and Kate jerks her hand back like she’s been stung, every inch of her abruptly on edge because she’s suddenly hyperaware of how close to America she is, their knees bumping as Kate balances the cake box on her legs, and America is very warm. Kate fumbles with her fork, fingers uncharacteristically clumsy, and it clatters to the floor. 

“Fuck,” Kate breathes out, laughs around the word like it’s all a joke. She leans back a little on the couch and says, trying to come off playful instead of like she feels like her heart might leap into her throat at any moment, “I really wanted some more cake.”

America looks at Kate cryptically and then smiles, one corner of her mouth turning up, and offers her own fork, mouthful of cake still perched on the end. “Here,” she says, “It was my fault, probably. I’m pushy.”

Heat creeps up Kate’s neck and America just keeps holding out the fork like she expects Kate to actually take the bite of cake, her eyebrows raising at Kate’s hesitation, and Kate almost wants to laugh and deflect like she’s best at, play it all off like something silly, say something like _I’m not a kid, thanks_. Except that she doesn’t want to downplay it, not really, not in the pit of her stomach, because this is the closest she’s ever been to America, and her eyes are this amazing, warm brown that make Kate feel like her insides are melting, so she leans over and takes the bite of cake that America is offering. America watches her with eyes that are soft but intent, like she’s trying to discover something, and Kate feels her face flush, the embarrassing splotchy red that afflicts the pale-skinned. She ducks her chin away and clears her throat, still feeling America’s eyes on her. 

There’s a beat, and then America offers, quieter now, “I’ll go get you a new fork.”

And when America gets up to venture back into the kitchen, Kate suddenly feels very cold, like America is withdrawing inside herself entirely, drawing away from Kate, and it startles her so much that she shoves her cake aside and jumps up, even though she’s got a bad leg, even though it aches.

“Um—” Kate starts and then realizes she hasn’t really thought much past that, just that she hates the way it feels like America is retreating away from her. 

America pauses and turns, furrows her eyebrows, frowns like Kate is a puzzle she can’t figure out. And then Kate – because America is beautiful in this sharp, barbed way that Kate has yet to master, standing in Kate’s apartment all petulant lips and strong, tan legs that go on for miles, because Kate’s reckless and terrible at this thing that involves funny feelings bubbling up from the base of her spine – does the stupidest thing she could possibly do. She kisses America. 

And for one fraction of a second, before reality hits her and Kate freaks out and regrets everything she’s ever done in her entire life, it’s perfect, the sort of light, dizzying moment that you end up wishing you could live in forever because it makes your heart feel so full it could burst. And then Kate’s brain catches up with her body and she jerks away, eyes wide and frantic, because _holy fuck_ , what the hell made her think that this was the proper course of action? Just because America flirts and volunteers to spend time with Kate doesn’t mean that this is what she wants, and America is staring at Kate like she’s never seen Kate before, and Kate feels the air rush out of her in a defeated _whoosh_ as her entire world threatens to collapse around her. 

“Oh no,” Kate says, hating herself a little for being so dumb, “I’m— _Fuck_ , I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

America is quiet and still for a long moment, and Kate fears that she’s going to just turn and run and Kate will never see her again, but instead, America throws her head back and she just _laughs_. Kate has never heard America laugh like this before; in fact, Kate realizes that she’s never really heard America laugh at all. America laughs from deep behind the hollow of her throat, this bright, liquid sound spilling out like she’s somehow found a way to bottle starlight, and Kate feels something unspool inside of her. 

“You fucking idiot,” America says, soft and fond in a way that Kate’s never heard before, and Kate realizes that this is what America must be like, stripped bare of all the thorns she wears for protection against the outside world.

The next thing Kate knows, America’s hands are cupping Kate’s jaw and she’s tilting Kate’s face up to kiss her properly, and Kate forgets how to think. Kate has kissed lots of people before – mostly boys and a few girls here and there, and Kate thinks maybe she’s always liked kissing the girls just a little bit more than she’s ever admitted to anyone – and she’s had plenty of good kisses, but this is something else altogether. America is soft and warm and she smells like coffee and something almost sweet and fresh like the whole great wide universe is caught in her skin, and when America moves a hand to tangle in Kate’s hair and parts her lips to bite down just this side of too hard on Kate’s lower lip, Kate feels her whole body turn to jelly. 

She’s pretty much panting by the time she pulls away for a breath, which would be embarrassing if America’s cheeks weren’t flushed too, spots of red high on her cheeks. America’s mouth is all kiss-swollen and the ends of her hair tickle at Kate’s collarbones, and Kate’s foot aches where it’s still healing and she’s almost certain that America is pretty much supporting all of her weight at this point, and she laughs, all former anxieties forgotten, revels in the firm press of America’s body against hers. 

“Don’t you have a café to run?” Kate teases, wanting to say something more like _please never leave_.

America shrugs and offers Kate a wicked grin that thrills Kate all the way to her fingertips. “Hired a couple new guys,” she says. “I think they can hold down the fort for a day.”

And Kate can’t bring herself to argue with that. 

\---

A few weeks later sees Kate back on her feet again and most likely not taking her physical therapy seriously enough, but she’s too excited to be out patrolling again to care. By the end of her second day back, she’s already scraped up her arm and twisted two of her fingers funny, but her arms and back are aching from some long-overdue archery practice with Clint and she feels better than she has in a long time. It helps, too, that America takes to coming over to Kate’s after work most nights, sometimes with takeout and always with that sideways smile that makes Kate feel like her chest could explode. And America teases Kate about being a spoiled rich girl trying to play hero and Kate scoffs at how America could run away from a near perfect home life to try to make it all by herself in New York of all places, but both of them mean it a little less than they ever say, feeling around each other to learn where the edges of their words catch and pull. 

And one night, when she and America decide to spend a night out clubbing (because they’ve only ever been on one real date and that was mostly so America could say “I’ve got a date” in front of the guys to see their reactions), they stumble back to Kate’s apartment and America is drunker than Kate has ever seen her. America curls around Kate in bed, all loose limbs and messy hair, sweaty clothes discarded in favor of warm skin on skin, mumbling words into Kate’s shoulder that Kate only half understands through the jumbled Spanish that Kate has learned loves to make appearances especially when America is either very drunk or very, very tired. The whole thing is quieter and softer than anything Kate has ever expected, and Kate finds herself thinking _oh god, I could really love this girl_. 

She wakes the next morning to a loud banging sound and her bedroom door being flung open and Clint shouting at the top of his lungs, “Kate Bishop, you’re the _worst_.”

Kate jerks awake in a manner that, in a silly children’s cartoon, would’ve earned her a bruised skull if she were sleeping in the bottom bunk of a set of bunk beds. She tugs her comforter a little self-consciously over her bare shoulder. She could’ve sworn she’d fallen asleep with a shirt on. 

“Wha—?” Kate mumbles and reaches about for her phone so she can check the time. It’s only a little past noon and a Saturday. Not bad, by any standards. Clint’s certainly done worse.

“I have some new leads on that gang that I wanted to look into. We were supposed to meet up like an hour ago,” Clint says, probably trying to sound indignant but his mouth is curved up a little like he’s mostly amused. He’s not shouting anymore, but his voice is still loud in Kate’s quiet apartment, which doesn’t really bother Kate, who’s been blessed with the good fortune of never experiencing hangovers, but in the bed next to her, America has been fussing ever since the noise started. 

Right on cue, America lifts her head up, all bleary-eyed and bedhead-ridden, and rests her chin on Kate’s shoulder, shooting a sleepy glare Clint’s way. “Do you mind?” she says, notably less sharp than if she were fully awake, and it’s probably the second cutest thing Kate has ever heard. “Some of us are hungover here.”

Clint’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline like he didn’t notice America before and there’s this very brief moment of him looking back and forth between the two of them, the messy hair and bare shoulders and clothes from last night strewn everywhere, before he scrunches up his nose and exclaims, “Ew, Kate. Give a guy a little warning, would you?”

Kate rolls her eyes. “ _You_ broke into _my_ apartment, dumbass,” she says. “I don’t owe you shit.”

Clint makes a sort of disgusted-sibling face at her, at the idea that she (technically an adult and fully capable of making her own life choices, thank you very much, including but not limited to bringing girls home if it suits her) actually goes out and dates and has sex and isn’t some sort of magical creature that never interacts with human beings for any other reason than strictly business ever. But he lets Kate shoo him out her room with orders to make coffee and lots of it, and Kate lets out a sigh and flops back in her bed. Next to her, America makes a soft, relieved grumbling sound and burrows a little deeper into the cocoon of blankets covering Kate’s bed (Kate likes to sleep with at least three at any given point in time, liking the weight of them on her as she sleeps). America’s sleepy breaths come out in warm puffs by Kate’s arm, and a wandering hand creeps over Kate’s stomach and settles somewhere near her hip, a loose embrace. 

“Your friend’s fucking weird,” America mumbles into Kate’s skin, tired, tripping syllables almost entire lost to the layers of blankets covering her. 

Kate snorts. “Is this the part where I say _‘yeah, but he’s my weird’_?” she asks, lighter than she’s felt in a long time. “Because I’m not actually sure that I actively signed up for any of this.”

From somewhere beneath the blankets, America laughs, quiet and easy and so much better than any idle daydreams Kate has ever entertained. Kate smiles and closes her eyes against the stillness of her room. America is warm against her side (she’s always warm, Kate’s learned, even in the middle of winter, like her body is constantly stockpiling heat, just in case), and her body is going soft again, mostly asleep, and Kate thinks, sappily, that maybe she’s been waiting her whole life for just this.

In the kitchen, Clint is banging around, probably looking for clean cups, and Kate lets out a breath and sits up. 

“I should probably deal with him,” she says, slipping out of bed and wandering around to try to find a shirt. America hums from the bed and rolls over, yanking the blankets further over her head. 

Kate ends up finding a shirt that’s most likely America’s because it’s too big for her and it’s got stars all over it and throws that on with a pair of running shorts before moving to venture out into her apartment. 

“You want me to make you something?” Kate calls softly over her shoulder as she nudges the door open with her foot and gathers her hair up into a bun. 

The pile of blankets shifts in a way that might be America shrugging and her muffled voice drifts out with, “Something disgusting and greasy and awful.”

Kate laughs and promises that she’ll try, trying to remember if she has any bacon left. 

The kitchen smells like coffee, warm and comforting, and Clint pours her a cup in her favorite mug and slides it across the counter to her, a gesture that might be an apology for acting so weird and risking scaring America off. Kate smiles and says nothing, but accepts the coffee before going to poke around her fridge for something to eat. Clint watches her with curious eyes as she slides the remaining few strips of bacon she has left into a pan on the stove.

“So,” Clint says between sips of coffee, eyeing her borrowed shirt pointedly, “This girl.”

Kate smiles and goes to grab a few eggs, popping a couple slices of toast into the toaster.

“Mm,” she hums, nudging at her bacon. “This girl. My not secret girlfriend.”

Clint laughs softly, something thoughtful that Kate doesn’t see so often these days slipping over his face. He’s been looking brighter than he did before Kate ran away to Los Angeles, and she hasn’t said much about it but she’s missed the softness around his eyes. 

“You like her?” he asks quietly, something heavy in his voice. Kate worries sometimes about how lonely he gets. 

Kate lifts her bacon out of the pan and cracks a couple eggs, hoping that she won’t mess up and have to scramble them so they look presentable. 

“Yeah,” she says, careful and almost afraid, foolishly, that if she says it too loudly, it’ll shatter whatever it is that she has. “Yeah, a lot.”

Clint makes a sort of humming sound into his coffee. The toast pops out of the toaster, and Kate’s eggs sizzle happily in the pan. Kate leans her hip on the counter, spatula in hand, and frowns at Clint.

“You’re not going to get all weird, pseudo-big brother protective on me, are you?” she asks, because Clint can get unreasonably paternal about her sometimes, almost like he’s afraid that she’ll turn out like him. 

Clint smiles, light and teasing. “No promises,” he says. 

Kate rolls her eyes and eases her eggs out of the pan and onto the plate with the bacon, grabbing the toast as well. She pours out another cup of coffee (black with a generous spoonful of sugar) and carefully scoops up her coffee and the one for America and the plate of food. On her way to the bedroom, she pauses by Clint and presses a light kiss to his hair, trying to convey all the things she hasn’t found the words for, feelings of _I’ll be fine_ and _you’ll be fine_ and _we can learn how to be the people we want to be apart from each other_. 

“I’ll meet you in like an hour?” she offers as she retreats down the hall to her bedroom. “Being a superhero comes second to being a good girlfriend.”

Clint snorts and waves her off, and Kate’s laughing as she nudges open the door to the bedroom, where America is still bundled up under Kate’s many blankets but awake, if only just barely. America makes a muffled grumbling sound that Kate thinks is trying to be words, and Kate laughs, setting the coffee down on the nightstand and nudging America over so she can put the plate of food in front of her. It takes a moment, but America perks up at the smell of breakfast and stares at the plate for a long moment. 

“Is that bacon?” she asks, her voice thick and groggy. A hand appears from under the covers and picks up a piece.

Kate smiles and brings her legs up to sit cross-legged on the bed next to America. She sips her coffee slowly as America eats, still half buried under blankets and eating like she’s never seen food before. She frowns at Kate as she eats, eyeing Kate’s bright eyes and composed smile. 

“Why don’t you feel like shit?” America says, sounding like she’s trying to make it come off as an insult but she’s not awake enough and she’s been too warm lately to really mean it anyways. 

Kate shrugs and takes a sip of her coffee. “It’s my superpower, I guess,” she offers, which makes America roll her eyes. 

America eats the rest of her breakfast in silence and manages to look a little more human by the time she sits up and reaches for her coffee. She takes a long sip and sighs happily.

“You deal with your boy?” America asks, shoving a couple pillows behind her back and leaning against the headboard. She’s been surprisingly okay with how unusual Kate’s relationship with Clint is and that Clint is basically her soulmate in a purely platonic sense, and Kate’s endlessly grateful that she’s never going to have that uncomfortable _no he’s not my boyfriend and he’ll never be my boyfriend ever and I’ve never wanted him to be my boyfriend ever ever ever, he’s just my older friend but like not in a weird way_ conversation that she’s been dreading to have basically since meeting Clint.

Kate shrugs. “For now.”

America gives Kate a thoughtful look, and there’s a second where Kate is sure that America is going to do something weighty, something serious. But then she smiles, and the sharp planes of her face smooth out into something that’s just curious instead, and she asks, “How did you meet him, anyways? How do you just accidentally befriend an Avenger?”

Kate laughs and goes to crawl across the bed to the empty space next to America. “Is this the part where I say ‘it’s a long story’?” she says, pulling the blankets over her lap.

“Isn’t it?” America asks, curling over towards Kate like it’s the only natural thing her body can do. She threads her fingers through Kate’s and leans her head on Kate’s shoulder, warm and grounding in a way that Kate’s never really known.

“Kind of,” Kate admits, which makes America laugh, and Kate’s chest feels so full she doesn’t know what to do with herself. She lifts America’s face up to kiss her then, because it feels like it’s the only thing she can do, and she tastes the coffee on America’s tongue, feels the strong curve of America’s jaw under the palm of her hand, and she thinks, right then, that America, just like this, hungover and tired and a little too affectionate from being hungover and tired, is one of the things she wants to remember when everything else is gone. 

“Well, go on then, princess,” America mumbles into the kiss and laughs again when it makes the kiss messy and unwieldy. She shifts and resettles, tucking her head against the curve of Kate’s neck, and says, “I’m taking the day off, and I’m not going to be going anywhere for a while anyways.”

America presses a kiss to Kate’s neck in encouragement, nudges her a little with the tip of her nose, and Kate leans back a little and tells her. She tells her everything, tells her about getting mugged, tells her about how that lead to taking self defense classes, and how self defense classes turned into martial arts, which turned into taking any class she could get her hands on to make herself into something stronger, someone who could stand on her own. She tells America about how it all lead to archery, of all things, and meeting Clint while practicing one day, hidden away on the rooftop of a building that he apparently liked to people watch and do recon from, and how he’d given her a couple tips on her form that day and she didn’t even realize who he was. And Kate has never told anyone this before (anyone but Clint anyways, and he was always going to know the story because he was there and this is their partnership and this is her origin story), because it’s not something that’s been asked of her, because there hasn’t been anyone who’s stuck around for long enough to find this little sliver of something secret that she’s kept hidden away under fantastical stories about saving the world (or at least the city), and it’s the first time anyone has cared this much. 

It all just spills out of her, and America listens, quiet and thoughtful and drawing aimless swirls into Kate’s palm with careful fingers. And instead of feeling scared or anxious like she thought she’d be, telling this to someone for the first time, she feels strangely calm and wonders if things were always supposed to be this simple. She looks at America, curled up against her side, all the big personality and determination and incredible generosity in her, and America blinks her eyes up to meet Kate’s, and Kate just thinks, _this has to be it, this is what I’ve been waiting for_ , hating herself, just a little, for turning into such a cliché.

(A couple weeks later, Kate will say it out loud and consider hating herself a little bit more, and America will laugh until she cries and tell her she’s an idiot and make her soup for dinner and kiss her over and over and over again, and everything will turn out just fine in the end.)

**Author's Note:**

> and in typical Vivian style, here we have another grand display of the kiss-and-freak-out scenario because a) I am an Bad Author and I am bad at the whole originality thing and b) I'm a huge sucker for this kind of situation so. um. sorry?
> 
> kudos and comments are super appreciated!
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](http://nataliaromonoff.tumblr.com/) if you feel up to it?


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